


Mulled Cider, Turkey and Madeleines

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Community: space_wrapped, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Leo are stranded on a planet at Christmas-- Leo's memories of Christmas are bittersweet.  It turns out Jim's are just bitter.  Angsty and schmoopy with mentions of Tarsus.  Many thanks to sangue for the beta and for the idea of the <a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/"></a><b>space_wrapped</b>  kirk/mccoy advent comm!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mulled Cider, Turkey and Madeleines

__  
**Mulled Cider, Turkey and Madeleines**   


Author: blcwriter  
Title: Mulled Cider, Turkey and Madeleines  
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy  
Rating: PG-13-- language  
Summary: Jim and Leo are stranded on a planet at Christmas-- Leo's memories of Christmas are bittersweet. It turns out Jim's are just bitter. Angsty and schmoopy with mentions of Tarsus. Many thanks to sangue for the beta and for the idea of the [](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/profile)[**space_wrapped**](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/) kirk/mccoy advent comm!

Considering that he fucking  _told_ Jim space was full of disease and danger and darkness and all of that shit and that shuttles were nothing more than fucking tin cans, he could be handling it a hell of a lot worse, Leo supposes.

He probably only stood around like a dumb fuck for a good twenty minutes or so while Jim hustled supplies out of their burning wreck of a shuttle and stored them upwind from the flames, wrapped them all up in some waterproof, windproof tarp of some sturdy fabric or something, did it all in the howling wind and flicking lightning of the damned storm that made them crash in the first place, then made up packs and got out enough cold-weather gear to make sure Leo didn’t freeze his ears or his hands off for wherever the hell he’s got them hiking to now—but still— he only really comes to—pays attention — as he realizes Jim’s marking every fourth tree with a sign as he hikes them toward some apparently known destination.

On an unexplored planet.

Just lovely.

Leo’s got to pay better attention during these away mission briefings, one of these days Jim’s not going to be the one piloting them down with not a scratch on them and then they’ll be screwed. Or dead. Whatever.

The wind’s howling and it’s cold and it’s dark—but somehow Jim’s wrestled him into a parka, mittens and hat-- a pack-- his body knows what to do even if his brain’s checked out for a while, too shocked from crashing and _living_ \-- not a damned scratch on them, not a bump or a bruise, for fuck's sake—well, he supposes he always knew Jim was an even better pilot than Sulu but he’d never quite wanted an up-close demonstration like this.

His body keeps following Jim even as his brain natters on and well-- yeah. He can do that.

\--

Jim grunts when the fire finally takes, and doesn’t look so much pleased as like a caveman who's really sick of raw woolly mammoth.  
Leo’s just fucking relieved because while they’ve got plenty of emergency rations, he really, really wants tea. They’ve got enough of the ‘Fleet bars to last them some time-- maybe weeks-- and the remote assays said the water was potable—there’s actually a stream not far from the cave system Jim had been heading them toward after the crash and while it seems like their tricorders are busted to hell, the assays haven’t ever been wrong and Leo’s already had Spock make sure the assays account for most of Jim’s allergies—plus, if they boil the stuff, they should be okay. Even Jim’s immune system isn’t usually that bad.

He scrambles up, pops out the water container, a foldable, plasticine thing, and makes his way out to the stream, hunkering under the wind, one hand on the headlamp because sure, it’s secure, but gale force winds out of nowhere blew them off course in the first place and he’s not taking chances if he can stay low to the ground. He gets back inside to find Jim unpacking the rest of their stuff and assembling some kind of tripod out of the wood he’d collected while Leo sat like a ninny and tried to stop freaking out about how their comms didn’t work. Jim uncoils some length of flexible wire and makes some hook/framework contraption to hang the open-mouthed pots from in what seems like mere seconds.

“I skipped survivalist training,” Leo says angrily. “Figured I’d be on a Starbase.”

“I figured you’d be with me, and you are. No worries,” Jim says, almost absently, then pours over what's exactly two cups into the pot without splashing one bit of the water. How he does shit like this when there are days he can’t walk down the hallways of _Enterprise_ without tripping on air-- there was that railing incident in Engineering last week that gave Leo three new grey hairs-- Leo won’t ever know, but there it is. Jim makes it count when it has to.

They don’t talk—they watch water boil, and Leo tosses in the two teabags after Jim uses another stick to move the pot away from over the fire—and shit, he hadn’t noticed but Jim's dug a real fire pit, lined it with rocks and all of that stuff, Leo's really been out of it and he’d better bring his attention around, pronto—and he starts to count off the  _mississippis_ in his head for how long the tea’s got to steep because hell—crashing on an unexplored, uninhabited planet is one thing. Bitter tea is another.

Jim pours the tea off into two mugs and drinks without even blowing to cool down the liquid—probably burning his tongue, the damned fool-- then takes a bite of his rations. The face he makes as he swallows is truly horrendous and oh—yeah.

Tarsus IV.

Jim really hates rations bars.

That stupid panicky nervous quavery feeling in Leo's stomach and the prickling hairs on the back of his neck and the way his hands haven't quite been shaking ever since that damned storm first started shift into a different kind of shaky anxiety.

Of  _course_ Jim can build a fire pit, salvage a crash, blaze a trail through unfamiliar terrain and live like a savage. This is a fucking field trip, compared, all the equipment of a ‘Fleet shuttle and two well-fed, fit men to boot? Leo forgets, most of the time, that Jim was a part of what’s still one of the worst blights on ‘Fleet’s history. He forgets because he wants to—unpleasant to think about it happening to his friend, uncomfortable to think about how he found out, how Jim reacted.

He only discovered the information through the sheer coincidence of having treated a Tarsus survivor during a psychiatric rotation. The patient had the same bizarre allergy profile as Jim—he’d remembered because it was so fucking weird, acquired eating that damned blighted grain and other inedible shit when there was nothing else left. He was one of Jim’s kids, a little group of orphans and stragglers he’d apparently cared for until ‘Fleet arrived—though Jim won’t ever discuss it, and when Leo confronted Jim the first time he had an anaphylactic reaction at school and the doctor got a gander at Jim’s histamine panel-- the exact same, only worse-- said he’d met and treated Kevin Riley—said Kevin used to talk during therapy about how the only reason he hadn’t killed himself yet was because “Ti” would be disappointed if he ever found out—said he could track down Kevin again if Jim didn’t come clean and make sure his record reflected his actual medical history-- Jim had turned utterly cold and said “you leave my kids alone, McCoy, or you will learn what regret means” before he hopped off the biobed and walked out of the clinic without being discharged.

He hadn’t seen Jim for two weeks—might not have seen him again ever, he thought—until he sent Jim a comm that simply read “white flag,” going belly up for a guy he'd known not even three months and missed more in two weeks than people he'd known all his life. He hadn't wanted to think that one through very much-- he'd just sent the text and kept fingers crossed, trying to do and be someone new than the "stubborn ass who could never admit he was wrong" like Joss used to say before she tossed him out on his ear.

And--Jim had sat opposite him at lunch the next day, the same kind of lunch he always ate, except this time Leo paid more attention—hot foods, no dessert except fruit, no gluten, no MSG, no bovine dairy, four chews per bite of food, and he never ate with his hands if he could help it, and Leo shook off the damned recollection and watched Jim munch on his protein bar, slurp his unsweetened tea, then wipe his hands on his pants with a look of disgust.

“Sorry about this,” Leo offers now-- lame, lame, lame, but what else is he going to say-- and Jim snorts.

“Whatever, Thor,” Jim answers, smiling. “I always knew that bitching about aviaphobia was a front. You just were waiting for an uninhabited planet to test out your long unexercised powers by smiting my shuttle. I’m totally docking _Galileo_ from your pay when we get back to the ship.”

“Fuck you,” Leo retorts, but that’s it. The tension is broken and the dull haze Leo’s been floating in for most of the day is gone—he’s not surprised when he starts chuckling—then giggling—then roaring with laughter—and the two of them are snorting and wiping their eyes and they keep setting the other one off and Leo keeps trying to get out something clever like “I’ll smite you,” or something like that, but it doesn’t quite work because he’s laughing too hard.

And hey, it could always be worse.

He could be stuck here with Spock.

\--

He’ll hand ‘Fleet this much—their materials people know what they’re doing, because yeah, their tinfoil blankets don’t do shit for the uncomfortable floor of the cave, but they’re warm and the two of them aren’t going to freeze so long as they stay out of the wind. Jim banked the fire not long after their so-called dinner and re-sorting the supplies he brought from the shuttle against one wall of the cave.

“What’s with the comms?” Leo had finally asked.

Jim had frowned. “Interference of some sort—the storm, the regular atmosphere, whatever. With the tricorder smashed, it’s hard to say. I could try and rewire one of the comms, but I’m afraid I might short it and then we’d be stuck if the other one fails. And while we can do without tricorders, I’d rather get in touch with the ship as soon as we can manage.”

Leo'd agreed, because of course Jim was right, and that had been that. He’d watched Jim frown at, then fiddle with, the smashed-up tricorder, but even Jim’s mechanical genius was getting him nowhere, and with a frustrated sigh, he'd set the gadget aside, then stood and stretched before ducking out of the cave.

When he came back, he had his public-health Captain’s hat on, something that left Leo embarrassed because it was something he should have thought of, goddamnit, but of course, Jim was right about where to put the latrine vis-à-vis the cave and the water supply when Leo followed him out to confer. So he’d agreed, then done his business, then made his way back to the cave, only to find Jim already huddled up on the floor in his tinfoil _cum_ blanket, eyes shut and wheezing with what passed for his snore.

And now, blinking awake as he stares at the ceiling, he realizes that he’s alone—and it’s light. Rolling over and turning around, he sees that it appears to be full day outside and Jim’s left him to sleep off whatever leftover panic attack Jim’s decided Leo’s still having—how in hell he got so goddamned lucky he doesn’t know to have a best friend who just lets Leo be Leo until he's done freaking out.

For the second time in two days, his body moves before his brain’s really working. He stumbles out of the cave and starts looking for Jim—he’s not sure what the hell there is to do around here, but he’s sure that there’s something.

\--

Jim shaves with his knife over the stream. It gives Leo the gods' honest willies, but Jim says real beards, not stubble, make his face itch too much, and it's true that Leo's never seen him with more than a few day's growth on his face. There's plenty of 'Fleet's biodegradable soap in the salvage from the wreck-- and why that and not an extra tricorder or two is a mystery to Leo-- so while they don't have spare uniforms, they can huddle up, freezing their nuts off under their blankets while their uniforms dry over the fire. Thank goodness there's plenty of firewood.

Jim amuses himself some nights by reading aloud from the regs manual that made it intact out of the wreck, leading the two of them to recount the regs' utter uselessness on some of their crazier missions, including that one with the things that looked like unicorns and tried to keep Chekov, pending a long-overdue move by their helmsman.

"God. When Pike commed because he thought maybe the whole ship was infected with hallucinogenic pollen again and he wanted to make sure before he 23a'd us," Jim says, giggling at the recollection of how _offended_ the space-unicorns were when Chekov practically mounted Sulu right there in his enthusiasm to return a fairly chaste kiss. "Thank God Spock had pictures."

Leo snorts in recall. It had been damned funny, watching those pointy-horned meddling horsey-faced bastards stomp off, thwarted from making their navigator their virgin boy king or whatever it was that they wanted.

"Never forget the look on Spock's face. Turned out he thought the two of them had been doing it ages before. He lost big in Scotty's pool, had to help the man calibrate his next batch of whiskey when the filters failed during the next red alert just to work off the debt."

Jim pauses-- gives Leo a double-take-- then bursts out in laughter.

"Oh. Man. I have got to stop not looking at that spreadsheet when I go through the databases, just like I don't look at his still when I go through Jeffries Tube 346z," Jim says, wheezing. "I love it. Okay. Okay. More gossip. Hit me. Come on, Bonesy. I know you know all the dirt."

After filing away those little tidbits-- both because it's good to know the location of Scotty's still as well as because he doesn't suppose he's surprised that Jim literally knows his ship to the last bolt and byte-- Leo mulls things over, deciding.

"Well. You know about Janice and Gaila, right, but I heard on their last shore leave on Risa..."

Jim starts bouncing in place and Leo suppresses a smile-- then sets to telling what he heard about the rented hovercar, the Deltan, and the guy with the three sets of tentacles. He's pretty sure Jim's going to be flailing with glee before the story is over, because the only thing Jim likes better than gossip is gossip with porny details-- and this story-- well-- he overheard it when Gaila came in to see Christine right when she got back to the ship.

Being CMO is a bitch sometimes, but that wasn't one of them.

\--

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Well, that’s one way to start the day their fourth full week here. Granted, he thinks his reaction’s totally warranted, because he comes upon Jim munching on some of the inner bark from one of the trees that are all over the place—though munching’s not precisely the word.

He’s tasting—quite carefully—chewing slowly and carefully like an herb witch or something and Jesus Christ, now he knows why Jim’s allergy profile is that much worse than his old patient's. He used himself for a guinea pig before he let his kids eat anything new, and of course Jim would have figured out how to do it, how to test things, of course, even if he was what-- twelve-- thirteen at the time?

Christ. It wasn’t _that_ bad, not by a long shot. They still had another week’s worth of rations if they only ate two each a day, and Leo’d gotten almost as handy as Jim at setting snares for the local version of rabbits that infested the planet. They'd gotten intermittent communications back with the ship, now that the winds had died down somewhat—although their attempts to beam down supplies had resulted in something smoking and mangled-- and had Jim telling a staticky Spock—“Yeah. Gonna need to calibrate that a little more closely before you try beaming us up, Commander,” in a nonchalant voice that didn’t change the fact that his jaw tightened and ticced.

In the meantime, while it was chilly and windy as hell, the lightning storms had died down and it  _was_ a rinky-dink planet. They’d explored a good deal, even if they had no way of recording their findings, and it wasn’t like there were shitloads of mountains or big scary predators, so they weren’t even burning that many calories.

They'd mock-named every geological formation on the planet with some Shakespeare or medical name, the Hills of Titania alongside the _Medulla Oblongata_ Creek just for chuckles. Spock would not be amused when they got back to the ship. But Jim was still stressed, and Leo was getting the feeling that Jim was playing along with the naming thing more for his sake than anything else. He would, the stupid self-sacrificing sonofabitch.

And there was no way Leo could just come out and  _tell_ Jim he was tense—that usually made Jim have more than a bit of a tantrum, nothing he wanted right now. He loved his best friend, but telling Jim what Jim’s moods were or what he was feeling was a sure-fire road to disaster—but this, well, this was too much.

“Jim, spit that shit out. I’m not eating goddamned bark, or grass, or whatthefuckever besides rations and tea and alien bunnies, and the wind’s been dying down, Spock said so just yesterday,” Leo says, hands on his hips.

Yes-- he’s aware he scolds like a Grandma sometimes but _Jesus_ , Jim just makes him want bourbon sometimes, and yes, he just admitted aloud that he trusts Spock’s instincts on some things, scientific data for one, but "damnit, so help me, you are not going to go developing any more allergies while we are down here just for dietary variety.”

Jim doesn’t pause in his serious chewing before he swishes and spits, clearly thinking about numbness and tingling and all the other sequelae they teach you when testing out possible new food and medicine sources and you don't have a tricorder. How someone so fucking smart can be so goddamned stupid or self-loathing or something... Leo's psychiatric degree doesn't get him anywhere close to figuring out what the hell goes on in Jim's head sometimes.

“We don’t know how long we’ll be down here and that bark hasn’t made me sick yet. If it dries well, then we can save it and eat it if it gets a hell of a lot colder,” Jim says very calmly, though he sticks the knife he’s been using to peel bark into its holster and shrugs like it’s of no import.

_Yet_ , Jim says. Like he’s been testing it out for a while. _Christ_.

“What else have you been testing?” Leo asks, because, well—better to know than to not, one way or the other.

“The shelf fungus,” Jim says, waving his hand at the spongy white stuff that grows on the trees that have been downed by the winds. “Tasteless, but harmless so far. I’ve got some of it drying, I haven’t tried any of that.”

“Anything else?”

Jim shakes his head, and that’s of course the right answer—you only try one food in one form at a time, for a week at a time, see if it makes you sick, before you move on to another.

Leo suppresses a shudder as well as a clash of uncomplimentary and near hero-worshipping thoughts about his Captain and friend, the fool with a death-wish, and slaps him on the back of the head.

“Come on, jackass,” he says, rather than headshrinking Jim about his anxieties of them having enough food or getting rescued or whatever’s going on in his brain. “Found some weird minerals in that gully on the other side of that evergreen copse, the rocks are all sparkly and shit.”

“Distract the Captain with shiny. Come on, Bones. You think I don’t know that game?”

Leo snorts—no matter if the bridge crew thought they were being so very subtle or talking out of Jim's earshot, Jim knows when he’s being manipulated. Leo’s just lucky the kid’s insecure enough to want to please people anyway. He'll take what he can get.

“I said sparkly, not shiny. There’s some kind of difference. If the hobgoblin was here, he’d make sure to tell you all about it. Probably something about silicon content or something, then start blathering on about elemental composition and statistical likelihoods and all of that shit. I'm no good at that game, thank you very much. My game is 'Bitch at Jim about Sexually Transmitted Diseases and the Dangers of Space,' remember?”

Not that Jim's actually slept with any alien princesses lately, but still.

Jim snickers and falls into step. “Right. And my game when your back is turned is 'how many 'Goddamnit, Jim's,' does it take to screw in a lightbulb.'”

Leo bites his lip on a retort. Whatever. So long as Jim’s not testing  _bark_ for nutritional content _._

\--

“I ever tell you about Grammy’s mulled cider?”

Jim shakes his head. It’s Christmas Eve, as Spock told them today, after another failed beam down at the shuttle crash site led to boiled rations packs steamed in their foil.

“Mmm. Bunny and bark for supper again,” Jim had said, quirking one eyebrow at Leo, and the doctor had broken some shelf fungus from a nearby log and thrown it at his Captain’s head. Jim had caught it and munched the bit with a grimace masquerading as a grin. Leo knew better.

So—over more spit-roasted alien bunny—and what Leo wouldn’t do for some salt—and more tea and some bark and some mushrooms—Leo tells Jim all about the cider his Gram used to make with her own apples. He talks about how he and his cousins used to get sent out to pick from the old, wizened trees, how they’d all rake up the leaves in the yard during the day Christmas Eve, then go off to church to sing carols and hear the Word—because whether or not they believed, Gram did and anyway, it was tradition. He talks about how they’d come home and have a late supper, something like Gram’s oxtail stew and some spaetzle, then her mulled cider, and then off to bed—because she knew they’d be up at dawn anyway, seeking their stockings and tearing into their presents while their parents drank coffee and tried not to look too amused by it all.

“Even when I got older, needed the coffee to get out of bed, that cider was still it, you know? The smell of Christmas, all of that—the apples, the spices, the bit of rum and vanilla she put in, though of course she pretended she didn’t even though she did it to knock us kids out to make sure we’d sleep,” Leo adds with a chuckle.

Jim smiles, and asks Leo about all the cousins, and when he’s done telling Jim all about that time with cousin Flo and the donkey, it somehow turns into an account of how after Gram died Joss went out of her way to call and say she was sorry to hear and Gram would be missed and all the civil things they hadn’t much done in years—but Gram had been that kind of lady and Leo couldn’t help but think—well, she would’ve liked Jim if she’d met him in person. Certainly, she’d laughed, talking to him on the comm when he’d answered the one in their room while they were at school.

“How about you?” Leo asks, and Jim looks perplexed. “What’s your mulled cider? The thing that smells or tastes like Christmas to you?”

There’s a moment where Jim’s face doesn’t do _anything_ that’s the tell—always is—and then Jim says “We didn’t do holidays much,” which Leo knew, generally. After all, Jim always picked up holiday shifts for his mechanic's job at the shipyard in Oakland and steadfastly declined Leo’s invitations to dinner in a way that said Leo’d better not push if he didn’t want to get punched, but seriously—Jim was twenty-six.

“Come on. You don’t have _one_ good Christmas memory?”

Jim’s face is still passive, a sure sign he’s something other than pissed-- something worse-- and Leo’s about to back off, figure out how to change the subject, as awkward as it’s going to be, when Jim answers.

“I’ve got one. Most of the rest are just … Mom off on whatever assignment, and Frank reeking of gin, I hate the smell of juniper, right? And I drank a lot when I left home after getting … back, Christmas tended to smell like cheap whores for a while, though who's the whore is maybe kind of an existential question and well, anyway.” He takes a bite of raw shelf mushroom and chews, his standard four chews per bite, and Leo is incredibly nauseous all of a sudden.

“We hadn’t had rain in six months, drought, you know, which was sort of okay, they had seeds adapted for dry conditions and all, but then the blight hit, and that was it for the crops.”

Leo's nausea is joined by the rising hairs on the back of his neck. And the hairs on his arms. And all over his body. Somehow, he suppresses a shudder.

"And, well-- you talked to Kevin, I'm not going to bore you."

Leo stifles the urge to-- well, he doesn't know. Cry? Yell? Tell Jim he can talk as long as he wants or say nothing at all? Curl up in a corner and put his arms over his head and pretend until it all goes away because Jim honestly thinks Leo'd be bored? But if he says something, Jim'll stop talking, so he says nothing. Then he realizes-- he does that a lot, says nothing around Jim. Maybe that's not as okay as he thought. He always thought he was giving Jim space, but maybe he's just been letting Jim go on thinking, well-- whatever he thinks.

But Jim-- Jim's talking again.

"Anyway. Maybe a month before the relief ships showed up ... God, talk about the bitter end ... it started to rain on Christmas Eve, because, well, y'know Spock's just a bitch about that calendar and clock in his head and likes to brag a bit but I can always keep track and the kids always wanted to know what day it was, like it mattered or something when the answer was still-- no, nobody's come. And it rained and it rained and it rained-- so I had the kids collect all the water we could, we had plenty of cups and basins and pots-- lots of empty households, you know-- and it's the dehydration that'll kill you, so as long as you can find just a little to eat you can scratch by. All that rain-- it was amazing. There was plenty to drink-- and there were these birds-- weird, pigeony things that could hibernate during dry times. Well-- they all came out because it was raining, right? Make hay while the sun doesn't shine and all that. So-- I caught a bunch of them, as many as I could manage. We had tons-- way more than we could eat without getting sick after not having anything much. It was our own Christmas miracle-- hah. So I smoked the ones we couldn't eat, hung them up in the back of the cave, and we ate nothing but gamey smoked _ki-difeh_ until the ships finally came."

Jim shakes his head. "It was the first time we had enough food, the same thing day after day. After day. It tastes just like turkey. All the kids were sure that Santa-- or God-- sent the rain and the _ki-difeh_ for Christmas. When the ships came-- they made us a big turkey dinner on the way back to Earth after one of my kids mentioned we'd never had Christmas. Pumpkin pie and presents and everything, and a big fucking turkey on a big fucking platter with all of this parsley. You could have knocked me down with a feather, because there was more green on that plate than I'd seen in a year. The kids were all going on about God and Santa and answers to prayers and-- I just knew we were lucky, sheer fucking coincidence. I mean-- weather, enough rain-- and Captain April finally breaking that Klingon blockade, a concatenation of circumstance, and if one thing went one other way.... Not that I said anything. You don't piss on someone's party like that, not when they're so small, not when they were so good, had put up with so much...."

Jim swallows some tea-- chews a small bit of ration bar, one of the few that they've saved-- then smiles a horrible smile, his eyes shadowed and dark.

"I ate every bit of those two pieces of turkey at that Christmas dinner-- observed-- because, well-- got to be careful, right after, don't binge, but still. I always eat all my turkey-- you don't know if there'll be any more, later, even if you hate how it tastes, and, well, it's sappy, to be grateful for turkey and random luck, but there it is. So-- to answer your question. A good Christmas tastes like rain and _ki-difeh_ and woodsmoke. A bad one tastes like gin. Or cheap whores."

And then-- as if to shut himself up, Jim takes up the last bit of mushroom he's got set in front of him, turns it over once in his fingers, then pops it into his mouth before he wipes his clean fingers off on his pants. Still chewing-- one, two, three, four-- then swallowing- he gets up and walks out.

He had to bring up mulled cider.

\--

The dictionary is full of words, and Leo could use almost all of them to describe Jim at one point or another-- sometimes he thinks it's because the kid's impossible to describe, and others, when he's drunk and feeling either maudlin or romantic, he thinks it's because Jim's just _everything_. Quixotic and moody are two words he could use, like just now when Jim walks off rather than do something like admit he's got feelings about something that it's entirely natural to have feelings about. Quicksilver and bratty are good words for him, too-- though not words he'd use now. Deadly, like when you fuck with his ship or his crew, and then he goes all ice-cold and it's scary to be anywhere but behind or beside him because being on the opposite side of his stare means _fire photon torpedoes_ or something equally fatal. Klutzy-- funny-- charming-- flirty-- drunken and brawling and sluttish, though none of those three so much since he made Captain, Jim's more responsible than most give him credit for-- a mad hand at cards-- handy-- can't whistle or cartwheel to save his life.

Then there are those starship scout attributes-- noble and brave and self-sacrificing-- that stupid histamine panel and Kevin Riley telling Leo so long ago about how a twelve year old "Ti" kept ten other kids from dying for almost five months-- diving off of that space drill to go after his pilot-- too many injuries on too many away missions shoving too many ensigns out of the way of hostile aliens to count. There's silly and cheery and nerdy and smart, Jim's goofy delight in things most adults would claim to be above like kiddie cartoons and old movies and paper books and the way he murmurs "it's a building with sick people, but that's not important right now," under his breath without fail whenever someone says "what's that" during a bridge officer's meeting-- and Leo can't help but snort because he's probably the only one in the room who knows what movie Jim's referencing every damned time.

And there's heartbreaking, because Jim's his best friend and vice versa and yet there's still so much about Jim he doesn't know. There's so much Jim hasn't said-- won't talk about-- doesn't share-- except sometimes he'll drop some nuclear bomb into conversation and Leo has to do something to stop himself from standing there, gape-mouthed. Like when Jim said after graduation that his Mom hadn't come and that he was going to skip Leo's dinner out with his cousins. To Leo's "Why?" at Winona's non-appearance, Jim had just shrugged.

"She said once I wouldn't ever live up to who he had been. She hates being wrong." And then Admiral Pike had interrupted them, and that conversation was over-- but Leo hadn't forgotten.

So now he sits here and thinks about a friend-- his friend-- his _best_ friend-- whom he's told things about Jocelyn and his father and other heartbreaks, and to whom he's listened when he's wanted to talk, and whom he's let walk away when Jim's wanted to run, even though it's always bugged him somewhat how Jim looks surprised the next time they meet up, like he wasn't expecting to see Leo. Like he'd expected that Leo would finally be done, or whatever. He's never confronted Jim about any of the things Jim has said before he's run off, and damnit-- he's tired of this.

He's tired of knowing Jim's a shitty sleeper-- always has been-- and has bad dreams he never discusses-- never even talks in his sleep even if his REM and brain waves are off the damn charts when he's in Leo's Sickbay-- and he's tired of the fact that Jim wakes himself up without even a gasp or a yell, like he's trained himself to be quiet because he doesn't want to disturb a gaggle of kids he's protecting-- or piss off some drunken stepfather who sleeps too lightly one room down the hall, not that Jim's ever explicitly talked about Frank beyond hints-- and he's tired of the fact that Jim knows him so well that he's been extending their stay on a planet and not throwing a temper tantrum at how long it's taking to get them off of this dirtball while they eat the same thing day after day at the expense of his own mental health-- all because Leo's so damned afraid of getting his damned atoms scrambled in a transporter mishap that he'd rather camp out in a cave and be one hundred percent certain the thing is working utterly perfectly than take that thousandth percent of a chance that they'll get scattered forever.

What sticks with him from what Jim has just said isn't just the bit about eating something he hates, because he doesn't know where the next meal's coming from-- it's the bit about how Jim spoke of his kids, how he talked about the way they'd believed in Santa and God and Jim wouldn't disillusion them of whatever it was they needed to believe-- like he'd been an adult and it was his job to protect their small innocence as long as he could, because the kids had been extraordinarily brave.

Jim had been _twelve_. Did he honestly think he'd just been doing what he was supposed to?

Leo scowls and sips the last of his tea, grimacing because he's let it get cold, let it go nasty and bitter by inattention. He hopes it isn't some kind of metaphor for his letting Jim walk out again without telling Jim it's okay, without telling Jim he's sorry, or it wasn't his fault, or something like that. It wouldn't ever come close to telling the truth of it all-- but it would at least be something against the taste of rainwater and woodsmoke and turkey.

He looks into his empty mug. Sets it down. Looks around. Jim left the comm.

The dictionary is full of words, and some of them can be used to describe Leo. Doctor. Southern. Abrasive. Gentlemanly. Profane. No Bedside Manner. Charming-- when he wants to be. Cowardly and passive have been hurled his way on occasion, mostly by Jocelyn, never by Jim, though there've been more than a few occasions during their friendship when it would have been warranted. Hell, Jim never even had words for him after Leo didn't stand up for the man when the Vulcan threw him onto that fucking iceberg, even though it nearly got Jim speared by that bug. Well, fuck that shit-- he's followed Jim for a while and he can learn from his example.

He picks up the comm and heads outside. He hopes he can get some reception, and doesn't really care whether that pointy-eared bastard's drinking eggnog with his girlfriend or not.

\--

They're picking through the piles of stuff at the wreck the next day-- Jim returned after an hour, and lord knew where he went, Leo drinking more tea and Jim saying nothing but pouring himself a cupful of the tea from the pot when he came in, and Jim sat on the opposite side of the fire, then took up his blanket and curled down to sleep not long after, and Leo-- well, he had plans and didn't yet dare to test Jim-- so now, they're picking through the containers to get at more soap because they need to do laundry tomorrow, and it's practically balmy, when the comm crackles to life.

" _Enterprise_ to Captain Kirk," and it's Scotty's voice, not the Vulcan's.

"Kirk here, Merry Christmas, Scotty," Jim says, and there's an answering "Aye," before the Scotsman says "I think I've got the transporter glitch fixed for ye, Jim, I'm gonna send down a test and if'n that works we'll have you two up in a jif if that's alright wi' ye."

Jim's face is just patient, but he says they're already at the crash site and to go ahead with the usual coordinates. It's clear to Leo he expects this to be like the other near-daily failures since they've re-established comms with the ship.

Instead, a bottle of Scotty's homemade whisky appears once the white swirly lights have all cleared.

"Oh, thank fuck," Leo breathes, because he spent fifteen minutes reading Spock and Scotty the riot act last night without divulging the precise reasons _why_ and he made himself come across like a paranoid fool. He really, really, really needs a drink-- after today's over and they've both had a long shower and Leo's had some time to pick some words out of a dictionary to apply to to all the shit this last month and more getting stuck on this dirtball with his maddening friend has churned up. Turned over. Shone a light on. All that stuff. For someone with a psychiatric degree, Leo is a champ at avoiding the meaning of his emotions.

Jim's laughing as he slings his arm over Leo's shoulder, his far hand holding the bottle of whisky as he speaks into his comm. "Two to beam up, Mister Scott."

Jim's arm is warm and not heavy at all-- they've both lost some weight on the lean and unvaried diet-- and Jim's parka reeks of woodsmoke and dirt, with undertones of Jim's smell of hay and hot peppers. Leo doesn't fool himself that he smells like sunshine and roses, and his face is slightly chapped from shaving with Jim's knife and that biodegradable soap. But it's a distinct smell and it's Christmas, and in a weird way, it smells like mulled cider.

He likes it.

Nah. Scratch that. He loves it.

\--

There's a bit of a delay and Leo starts feeling nervous, starts to wonder if this was a good idea-- if he should have commed-- made plans-- whatever-- or something-- and he's _not_ going to shuffle back and forth on his feet like a teenager waiting for his date to answer the door. But he does want Jim to answer the door, rather than just barge his way in like he always has in the past.

He wants Jim to make this decision, after more than a month on that planet together-- he wants Jim to decide he wants to hang out with Leo-- but then Jim's door opens and his Captain's standing there, dressed in old sweats and a jersey, towelling his hair and completely clean-shaven. Sometimes Jim's so stern and adult-looking he could be anywhere up to fifty-- and sometimes he looks like he's twelve. Two guesses how old he looks right about now.

"Hey," he says, blinking, confused, as he looks at Leo and the covered tray he's got in his hands.

"Can I come in?" Leo asks, and Jim steps out of the way, his "Sure" sounding anything but. He doesn't know why Leo's here, much less why he's asking permission to enter.

Leo sets the tray down on the small table Jim uses as a desk-- a dining room table-- an all-purpose rec center. It's where he and Spock play chess-- he and Leo play rummy-- the senior bridge crew plays poker-- and right now it's empty except for some of Jim's ever-present paper books that Leo moves so they won't get spoilt by the food.

He takes off the lid, sets out the plates and the cups, moves the napkins and tableware all around, fidgets enough for a room full of flibbertygidgets, and finally decides he's being a chicken.

"They don't have _ki-difeh_ anywhere," he says, looking at the turkey he'd gotten the galley to give him. It's surrounded by a garden of parsley, just like Jim said.

Jim snort-giggles, his eyes watering. "I know. I ... um. I really did kill every one I could find."

He almost looks sorry. Leo never could be. If Jim extinguished fifty small avian species, it would be a small price to pay to have him right here.

Slowly, Jim approaches the table, then picks up the mug and inhales the aroma of apples and vanilla and spice-- and just a small splash of rum. It took Leo almost an hour to make it taste right.

"What are those?" he asks, eyeing the small plate of cookies-- and Leo can feel the red creep up his neck to his ears.

"Gluten-free madeleines," Leo says, and no, he does not have a lump in his throat, thank you very much.

Jim snorts again, and says "Proust would turn in his grave to know you made his sacred cookies without wheat flour." Leo exhales-- silently, he's not going to sigh-- and gives Jim an eyebrow.

"Proust's Mama wasn't a stupid brave hyper-allergic sonofabitch who can crash-land a lightning-struck shuttle without a scratch on either him or his chickenshit friend, once again proving his ability to work fucking miracles. Marcel can bite me. Or bitez-moi, as the French say."

He actually has no idea what the French say, but if Jim knows, he's not correcting Leo right now. Instead, Jim's eyes are still watery as he laughs, but the laughter ends quickly-- too quickly. "You didn't have to do this, Bones."

Normally, Leo would demur or say something sarcastic, and then they'd sit down and eat, go on like they always have-- and he _knows_ he's Jim's best friend. He's not worried about that. But-- he's never really pushed back.

These past weeks-- though there have been plenty of times it's happened before-- there have been moments where conversation's trailed off-- Jim looking at him, or him looking at Jim, and then one or the other of them looks away or changes the subject, and Leo had finally seen, only crystallized last night after Jim left the cave, that Jim would only and always take what was given when it came to the people he cared about.

Food-- the welfare of his crew-- the material comforts-- he'd push with everything in him, fight tooth and nail like he steered poor wrecked _Galileo_ down to the ground, the shuttle setting down with barely a jolt-- but he'd never ask, never let on, never admit to himself that there was something he needed except when utterly pressed-- in his relationships with the people he loved. And then he'd laugh it off, or walk out on the conversation, like the admission just didn't matter. Like he'd done last night.

So Leo says nothing sarcastic-- for once. Instead, he tells Jim the unvarnished truth.

"No. I didn't have to do it. But I did-- and I did it because I wanted to, Jim. And I want you to understand something, kid. You think you do things because you have to-- because it's your duty-- all the time-- and you never give yourself any credit as a result. You tell yourself it's what anybody would do and it just isn't true. You do things because they're the right thing, but that doesn't mean they're what anybody would do. They're just what you would do-- and that's pretty damned special."

Jim blinks- once-- twice-- swallows-- and before he can say anything-- Leo speaks once again. "So. Luck. Santa. God. Grateful. Whatever. We've got mulled cider and turkey and madeleines and a shitload of memories to process before we can work on to the happy future memories shit. So sit down and eat."

Jim sits and looks at the spread. "You suck at metaphors, Bones. And has anyone ever told you you're a total romantic?"

Leo snorts and raises his cider in toast. "I've been called a lot of things, but not that. Merry Christmas, kid."

Jim clunks his mug back, but his throat doesn't seem to be working quite right as he looks at Leo through glimmery eyes. Feeling quite bold, Leo decides-- what the hell. He pushes half out of his chair, leans over the table, and kisses Jim-- and yeah, Santa or lucky or grateful, Jim's lips soften and he kisses back, though the position is awkward and Leo's stomach is gurgling at the smell of the food and their noses are mashing together.

Jim snorts, his breath damp on Leo's skin, and he pulls away to see his friend smiling, amused. He retreats to his side of the table and Jim looks at him pointedly-- Leo looks down to see there's parsley stuck to his shirt-- that and turkey grease, smeared on his sleeve.

"Metaphorical mistletoe," he says, and Jim laughs.

When they're eighty-five and ninety-one, thereabouts, maybe their grandkids or proteges or other young hangers-on will want to know the answer to a puzzling question. "  
How come you hang parsley in the doorways instead of mistletoe like everyone else?"

Leo looks forward to telling the story.

  



End file.
